Page 93 of Beneath the Devil's Mask
Pivoting on his heel, he strode to where his gelding was tied, undid the reins, and vaulted into the saddle. Anne pressed her fist to her mouth, swallowing the urge to call him back. She had to remind herself that if she had wounded anything, it had been his pride and not his heart.
As to the condition of her own heart, it was something she did not care to examine just now. She watched him wheel the black gelding about and thunder off through the park.
He had just vanished from view when Norrie cantered toward Anne on her pony. The child had coaxed James into allowing her to ride without his guiding hand upon the leading reins, but Anne felt too drained to remonstrate.
Norrie reined the pony to a halt, crying out in dismay, “Mama, where is Lord Man going? He did not even say good-byeto me and I wanted to show him how I can ride Pegasus all by myself.”
Anne felt unequal to dealing with her daughter’s disappointment, but she managed to reply, “Lord Mandell recollected something important he had forgotten to do. We cannot take up all of his lordship’s afternoon, babe.”
“Do you think he’ll remember about Aunt Lily’s party tonight? Can I wait up to tell him about Pegasus then?”
Anne winced. She had forgotten about the cursed soiree herself, and she had promised to help Lily hostess.
“No, Norrie,” Anne said dully. “I don’t believe we shall be seeing Lord Mandell at Aunt Lily’s tonight.”
Or ever again.
But that thought was too bleak for Anne to acknowledge to herself let alone to her sad-eyed little girl.
Eighteen
The party was what Lily termed a quiet evening, a little supper and cards for a select gathering of forty or fifty of the countess’s most intimate acquaintances. She wished to introduce to her friends a passionate young poet she had met who promised to be as scandalous and infamous as Lord Byron.
Anne found Mr. Percy Shelley a little alarming, with his views that encompassed everything from atheism to the banishment of the monarchy. After dinner, when the gentleman was coaxed to recite some of his poetry, Anne was content to retreat behind the rosewood table in the drawing mom, helping to serve the tea and coffee. She felt out of place amongst such brilliant company, but it seemed preferable to the solitude of her room this evening. She knew she would have done nothing but stare out the window into the gathering gloom, listen to the mournful sough of the wind through the trees, and think too much about Mandell, wondering what she would say to Norrie when he did not come to join them in the park tomorrow, wondering what consolation she could whisper to herself when he never came again.
Any distraction was better than such torment, though she wished Lily’s party was livelier. The drawing room had become oppressively solemn, with the only sounds the crackling of thefire and the earnest cadence of Mr. Shelley’s voice reciting a sonnet he had been working on of late.
Lift not the painted veil which those who live Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there, And it but mimic all we would believe with colors idly spread.
From the fidgeting of many of the guests, Anne wondered if they comprehended Mr. Shelley any better than she. Only one listened with rapt attention, a latecomer who stood apart from the others, barely inside the threshold of the room.
Anne’s heart gave a jarring thud. Mandell. She had so convinced herself that he would not come tonight, she had ceased to look for him. She had no idea at what juncture he had slipped inside the drawing room, joining the other guests.
The sight of him occasioned her as much pain as joy. The unrelenting set of his shoulders reminded her of his behavior when they had first met, proud, sardonic, aloof. She saw no trace of the man who could be so laughing and tender with her little daughter, nor the lover who had wooed Anne with such gentle passion, nor even the man who had been vulnerable enough to tear out of the park in a rage of hurt and anger. He was the marquis tonight, garbed in that style of severe elegance, the contrast of black and white that became him so well. His dark fall of hair was swept back from his forehead, candlelight flickering over the plane of his high cheekbones.
When Mr. Shelley finished his recitation, the company broke into a polite smattering of applause. Mandell strolled away from the doorway and glanced about the room. It was then that his eyes met Anne’s. She saw at once that it was more than the length of the chamber that separated them. The distance was in his eyes tonight.
Her heart sank. So he had not forgiven her for slighting his proposal of marriage. Then why had he come? She could not believe it was to hear Mr. Shelley declaim his poetry.
As Mandell approached her refuge behind the tea table, Anne busied herself with rearranging the spoons and helping the dowager Lady Mortlake to coffee. With the duke of Windermere’s words of warning about scandal still ringing in her ears, Anne fancied a dozen pair of critical eyes upon her and the marquis.
When the dowager moved away to chatter and whisper with some of her acquaintances, Mandell took Lady Mortlake’s place in front of the table. As he towered over her, Anne was too much aware of the silk-sheathed contours of his hard masculine figure. She strove to maintain a calm outward facade.
“Good evening, Lord Mandell.” It was difficult greeting him as a mere acquaintance, but if she did not look up at him, she found she could succeed. “Such a surprise to see you here this evening.”
“Where did you think I would be?” he murmured low enough so that only she could hear. “Languishing at home with a broken heart’?”
The cold sneer in his words cut her deeply. It had been so long since he had used that tone with her.
“No, you are looking very fit,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “May I pour you some coffee?”
Her fingers trembled so badly when she offered him the cup, Mandell was obliged to steady her hand with his own. The contact was warm and all too fleeting.
“You appear to be a little overcome this evening, my lady,” he drawled. “Perhaps it is owing to the force of Mr. Shelley’s poetry.”
“I scarcely understand it and what I do comprehend saddens me, all this talk of raising painted veils and discovering only fear and disillusionment beneath.”
“I found his little sonnet most amusing and quite apt. How did that one part go? Ah, yes.‘He sought, for his lost heart was tender, things to love, But found them not, alas!’”
